


Striker

by marissalyn14



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boxing, Clexa, F/F, F/M, Love Affair, cinderella man, dark but hopeful lol, ranya, undercover girl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 18:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10791894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marissalyn14/pseuds/marissalyn14
Summary: When it comes to family, Lexa would stick her neck out on the line every time, especially for her son Ben. When it comes to love and fortune, Lexa would jump through countless hoops to win it all. Set in the 1930s New York, Lexa is left a single mother and her only shot at keeping her son alive during the Great Depression is either fight or flight. A story where Lexa disguises herself as a man to put food on the table every night and how she falls in love with her manager's wife.





	1. Prologue

Picture a room full of sweaty angry men all shouting at the top of their lungs, money thrust in the air wavering from clammy, grubby fists. 

Picture yourself leaning against the wall of a boxing ring, breathing heavy, your vision blurred. A man is coming towards you with his arms raised and fury in his eyes just for you. 

Picture your son at home sleeping in his bed, your sister watching over him while you’re out doing this. Fighting for his dinner, fighting for your rent. Your manager is watching you from across the ring, right next to his boss who is watching the other guy, his black eyes small and his look terse. His lips are pursed as if he had eaten something sour. 

Picture a beautiful blonde woman sitting up in her kitchen, a cup of tea spiked with too much liquor resting between her palms. Her eyes are focused on the stillness of her drink, her ears tuned in to the radio sitting on the table in front of her. Picture that this woman is your friend, someone you can confide in when everything seems to be going to shit. Picture her as someone who looks at you when you speak, knows exactly who you are and what you’re willing to give and listens anyways. Picture her as a lover, someone you can kiss behind closed doors and beneath candlelight. Picture her as the one thing you cannot break with your fists. 

Now picture this woman as someone who is not yours. Imagine her as your manager’s wife because that’s who she is. Remember the way that she smells, the way that she feels, the way she tastes. Write it down so you won’t forget it if you get hit one too many times the following night and can’t recall your own name. Brand her into your skin with ink in a place only she can see. Let her scrape her nails down your back and her teeth bite into your neck because you are unable to do the same. 

Don’t think about her for too long though, otherwise you’ll wind up on your back and your cover will be blown and your job terminated. Don’t picture her looking at you with those sad eyes and that frown that made your stomach ache and your chest burn. Don’t allow her voice to flood through your eardrums begging you to run away with her, asking you to stay, pleading for you not to walk back into the ring that would one day be your coffin. 

Instead focus in on the man standing in front of you already thinking he’s won, already planning what he was going to eat for dinner in an hour with his night’s winnings, but that money is yours, is your son’s, and you weren’t afraid to let your fists say just that. 

Allow your feet to move you to the right away from him, proceed to circle him and let him feel like the prey as you try and remember his ticks. Your manager was always telling you to pay attention to patterns; boxers always had patterns, even you. Your pattern though, unlike everyone else you have ever fought was a collective energy that was made more for survival then just a measly fight between men. Mostly because you were not a man, and that was a secret that in this business you would take to your grave, whether that was in the next thirty seconds or the next thirty years. 

Watch as he advances on you now, take notice to his left wrist twitch, and know that it’s the first one he swings. Duck so he misses you by just an inch, chanting in your head the whole time to remind yourself that it takes nearly double the energy to swing and miss, than it is to swing and hit. 

Straighten back up, roll your shoulders and bounce on your feet. Let him know that you are more agile, firmer in all of his weakest spots. Don’t wait for him to regain his balance. Strike before his eyes meet yours, knowing fully well that your eyes are your tell. 

Hit him in the nose drawing blood, strike once more in his side. Bounce back before he has the chance to knock you over with his arms. He is double your size, but you were paid more to fight outside of your weight class. Swing again when he isn’t looking and hit him in the jaw, a second time in the side again, and a third in his abdomen. 

Wait for him to move away from you, watch as he loses balance and falls to his knees. Allow the ref to raise your arm high and announce you the winner of the night’s fight. 

Go home and crawl into bed beside your son knowing you need him more than he needs you, but not by much. Thank god you’re still alive and promise the silent room that you would give it up soon. 

Take back that promise the following night once your son is asleep and you were telling your sister where you had stashed your money in case something were to happen to you. 

Kiss the girl you were meant to hate and proceed to look her husband in the eyes while he wraps your hands and convinces you that the fight you were about to face was an easy one. Know he’s lying and respect him for it. Prove yourself wrong in the ring.

Wash, rinse, and repeat.


	2. Chapter One

_June 6th, 1934_

Blood is all you could taste as you sit in your corner of the ring, Bellamy pouring water into your open mouth, spitting it out into the bucket between your feet, feeling a tooth go with it. 

You watch the eyes of the man across the ring from you, his grin wide and his eyes glassy. All you see is hate in his eyes, as if he knew exactly who you were beneath all of the gauze and sweat. 

The timer was going off and suddenly you were on your feet again and the stool you had just vacated slipping out onto the floor next to the judges. Suddenly the eyes you had just been staring at were now much closer and you could already feel the heat emanating off of your opponent. 

Doug Howard, 35 years old, 245 pounds, 6’3. 

He was the only thing standing between you and the championship money. 100,000 dollars that would allow you and Benjamin to leave the state, maybe even Clarke if you were willing to break any and all ties towards your current life. 

He had already hit you twice; you couldn’t let him do it again. He had eighty pounds on you easy and you weren’t sure if you could take another hit and still be able to stand up. He was smirking at you though and there was nothing you hated more than a man who thought he had you stuck. Quickly thinking back to his technique, you managed to slip away from him right before he went for your ribs again. You could feel them creak with every breath you took, could taste the blood that was still apparent on your tongue. You hated this man, hated everything that he stood for, hated that he had figured you out, hated that he knew about Ben. 

If you walked out of this ring alive you knew it would only be a matter of time before he found you. You had only one choice, you had to kill Doug Howard before time was up. 

Moving quick on your feet you managed to dodge him again, playing a game of cat and mouse that you very much hated to do in front of over a hundred stuffy men in their stuffy hats and suits. 

You really wish you had kept your promise you made every night before you went to sleep. 

Doug was advancing on you now as you tried to clear your head. There was no time to slip under his arm again as he cornered you against the pole. You only had one way out and it was through him. 

Darting your eyes over his torso you looked for a weak spot and found nothing. Doug had won every single fight he had ever entered and you were the only thing keeping him from being unbeatable, consider your method to kill or be killed. Now risk your entire life and career to win.

_November 17th, 1932_

The early morning light spilled out onto the comforter that covered your legs, eyes cracking open to answer the call of the chirping birds outside your window and the sound of little feet scampering across the wooden floors of your hallway. 

“Mama?” A small voice called out from behind your closed door as it was slowly cracked open to reveal a boy about five years old rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and looking to you with questions that only you could answer. 

“What’s up, bubba?” You called to him, patting the bed to tell him to climb into it with you. 

“I’m hungry.” 

You felt the urge to wrap him up in your comforter and hide him away from the cruel hand you were dealt, but every day he grew older, taller, and one day he would be stronger than you. Hopefully by then you are able to get him out of this city and to somewhere much more peaceful. Somewhere with large fields of grass and a quaint but happy life. 

“Sure thing bud.” You answered him with a small smile, knowing that there was only one slice of ham left and enough milk until lunch. Knowing you would go another day without food, you told Ben to wait for you in the kitchen so you could get dressed. 

Standing in front of the dirty old mirror your late husband had scrounged up for you in an alleyway, you traced over the thin skin that covered your cheekbones, the odd crook in your nose you had received from a bar fight a few years ago, and the visible scar from a split in your lip from a ring a man had been wearing when he hit you. 

Slipping into your trousers and work shirt, you made your way downstairs where Ben had already sat himself at the table, your sister Anya talking to him as she cooked his breakfast. Half a slice of ham now, the other half saved for lunch. 

“You look rough.” Anya said at your appearance. 

“Don’t I know it.” You threw back, ruffling your son’s hair as you passed by him. 

“Having trouble sleeping again?” Anya asked, her eyes only meeting yours for the briefest of moments, making sure to keep her voice down so as not to worry her nephew. 

You shook your head in response, “I’m fine. Just couldn’t help but think about the last of Nicholas’ money running out.” Your late husband had passed away only a year prior to now and you have gone on long enough without worrying. It seemed life was catching up to you, a bit of karma that you rightfully deserved. 

Anya nodded, her lips pursed as she removed the ham from the pan and handed the plate over to Ben. 

“So I guess you’re going back to work then.” 

“I have no choice.” You said with a bit of disdain. You had enjoyed spending the past few months home with Ben while Anya worked. She was a seamstress down on 2nd street, a steady job that was considered a blessing around these parts. You were lucky if you got paid two nickels and half a loaf of bread for a day’s worth of labor. It was enough to get you by for a dinner or two if you really stretched it and allowed Ben to eat more than you like you always had. 

“Do you know where to find him?” Anya asked, knowing just exactly who she was referring to.

You nodded, “Of course I do. He’d never miss a chance like this.”

XXX

Meeting Bellamy again you had to admit was a bit nerve racking, because he knew you. Well he knew you when he was friends and manager to Nicholas. 

Nicholas used to fight and he was pretty damn good at it if the scars on your body had anything to say about it. He only stopped fighting briefly when Ben was born and he swore he’d be a better man and find an honest job to make his money now that he had a son. That lasted all about a week before his hands grew to itch and he began to threaten you with divorce and hitting you when you said you’d be better off. 

Bellamy Blake was always at the pub down on fifth avenue, not because he was a drunk, though he may have been that too, but because it was where the business was. You hadn’t heard anything about him picking up a new client, instead he was much more of a gambler. He would rile up alcoholics or businessmen alike and get them to gamble all this money and he would win damn near every single time.

Bellamy Blake hadn’t aged a bit since you had seen him at Nicholas’s funeral just over a year ago now. 

A U.S. veteran from WWI who got to be buried in his Marines uniform with the American flag draped over his coffin. People had cried while your face stayed dry, after all it would be tacky to mourn the man who beat you damn near every day towards the end. Family and friends turned a blind eye while you suffered for five years until you couldn’t go along with it anymore, and plotted just how you were going to get out of it.

While everyone believed that Nicholas died from alcohol poisoning, a story that was convincing with how bad his PTSD had become, it was actually rat poisoning that you had slipped into his dinner. You sat peacefully across the table from him as he slowly began to choke and watched as the fear in his eyes turned into realization. When Nicholas died he knew he had taken advantage of the wrong woman for far too long.

You watched Bellamy from across the room, sip on a beer but mainly focusing on keeping the man alongside him fully supplied. They were listening to the horse race together, Bellamy looking terrifyingly calm as his victim was damn near sweating through his suit.

You waited for the race to finish up as Bellamy clapped the poor bastard on the back and held out his hand for his winnings. The man grew angry, his face bright red from the rage and perspiration, “I ain’t payin’ you shit! You cheated, I don’t know how but you did!”

Bellamy sighed, “Now Arthur, I’m a man of my word, such as you had made me believe you are. If it was my horse who had lost, you’d already have my money in your hand and be halfway out the door a hundred dollars richer.”

“You cheated. I’m sure of it. It ain’t possible for a man to win every single time he bets.”

“Surely all just sheer luck I’m afraid.” Bellamy began standing to his feet, “Now are you going to be an honorable man who accepts his loss or am I going to have to have someone intervene?”

You felt your palms scratch at the desire to fight, something had learned to love once you had watched Nicholas knock a man straight to his death. It was powerful and your fists could be ruthless, but it was all about control, something Nicholas had never been able to learn. 

A man who had been watching same as you took a step towards them, tall and lean, his shoulders aligned in the exact form you would need to intimidate.

The man in the suit saw him just as you had, but feared him because he knew he couldn’t win. You however, were certain you could take him. He was the exact same build as Nicholas, if not a bit leaner, and you had already began to form a plan to bring him to his knees. 

Men were always so confident, they oftentimes forgot just how much they gave away. 

“That won’t be necessary.” Arthur stammered, his eyes flicking back and forth between Bellamy and this other man. 

Bellamy held out his hand again, knowing that this would be the last time he asked nicely, Arthur slapped the bills into his palm, grabbed his hat and coat and bolted out of the pub like a bat out of hell, nearly tripping on his way out.

You watched as Bellamy chuckled and shook his head, counting the money before splitting off about thirty of the hundred and handing it to the man that had been residing in the corner. “As if I’d ever be stupid enough to fight my own battles.” He said with mirth, chuckling again to himself. “They have no idea just how much power I have.”

“I do.” You found yourself saying, standing to your feet and moving closer to where the man sat at the bar. 

“Well that would make you a very smart man, Mr?” Bellamy smiled wide, probably seeing you as his next prey. 

Quickly you came up with a last name, “Smith.” 

Bellamy held out his hand for you to shake, “And what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I hear you used to manage the ring.” 

Bellamy nodded, a twitch in his cheek at what was most likely the memory of his best friend. “I used to, yes.” Then he chuckled, looking you over at your slight build and small frame, “Why, looking for some trouble?”

“Definitely looking for the money you earn to start it, sure.”

Bellamy smirked, “And you want me to take you on I’m guessing?” At your nod he continued, “Now tell me why I should put all my time and effort into a man whose body hasn’t aged past twelve?”

You ignore the job, looking over his shoulder at the man that scared Arthur away. “I can take him.” 

Bellamy’s brows raised in shock, “Can you now?”

You nodded once more, “Without a doubt.”

Bellamy chuckled, looking back and forth at the man behind him and then at you. “Alright. We’ll take this outback, wouldn’t want to ruin the floorboards with all of the blood.” 

You found yourself rolling your eyes. 

“As long as that’s okay with you, Lincoln?” Bellamy asked the man as he stood to his feet and threw back the rest of his pint. “Shall we?” He leads you towards the back door to get into the back alleyway behind the bar. “How do you want to do this?” He asks, already pulling out a rolled cigarette and a matchbox.

“Whoever gets in three good hits first.” You say, you’d been thinking about this since the moment you saw Lincoln stand up.

“Alright then, on my mark.” He pulls out a match and strikes it against the bricks behind him. “3,” He lights his cigarette and takes a drag, “2,” 

You find yourself squaring your shoulders and arranging your feet the way you like them to start.

“1.” Bellamy breathes out the smoke with it, watching the two of you square up and begin to dance around each other. 

Lincoln had removed his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves, eyeing you and trying to find your weak spots. You know you need to be the first to hit because if he hits you, you know you’re going to reel backwards. So you step into his space before he has the chance to move into yours, swinging right for his head, but it doesn’t connect. Instead Lincoln dodges your arm and immediately returns into the space with what would’ve been a punch in the ribs if you hadn’t suspected it first. 

You jump back, landing on your heels which gives him just enough time to swing at you again, right for your face. You duck under his elbow and wind up behind him. As he turns to face you, you take the opportunity to swing at his gut, except it doesn’t take his breath away like you hoped it would. Lincoln takes a step back, very clearly taking the momentum for his next hit, except he doesn’t get to make it because you swing first, you fist colliding with his nose and drawing blood. 

Lincoln spits blood onto the asphalt at your feet, his face much of a grimace.

You wish you could see the shock on Bellamy’s face, but he’s behind you and now was not the time to lose focus.

Lincoln takes two more swings, one your able to dodge, but the second one connects with your jaw, making you nearly bite into your tongue. It was now 2-1 and you were winning.

The hit knocked you backwards though, and Lincoln isn’t letting up a bit. He steps into your space, eyes full of irritation, his hands up and ready to take on your next swing if he doesn’t hit you first.

There’s only one way you know of to win when somebody has this much of a guard up, but if you messed it up you were going down. You dance again with him, circling each other, reading his body language as stiff and agitated. 

You think over what you’re about to do, making sure to keep your face and eyes blank. You only have one shot at getting this right. You move quickly, stepping in with your left foot and headbutt Lincoln right in the nose again, hearing a satisfying crunch when you do so.

Lincoln rears back and covers his face with his hands, a groan as fierce as his fists amplified through his hands.

You step back, allowing your hands to fall slack at your sides, taking deep gasping breaths as you watched Lincoln to make sure he wasn’t going to come after you for real. You hear Bellamy begin to clap behind you, pushing back off the wall and putting his cigarette out with the toe of his boot.

“That was really something.” He says, his mouth quirking up into a grin. He chuckles even, “I only know one other person who could beat the shit out of Lincoln like that and that’s his wife.”

Lincoln groaned once more, but this time at the terrible joke.

“His wife is my sister.” Bellamy says with a wink. “Anyways, I’d love to take you on, but to be honest the only way either one of us will be making money is if you fight outside of your weight class.” He takes a step closer to you, “Because there aren’t really going to be any men that are ever going to be around your weight. I’m guessing 120, if that?”

You shrug, “Sometimes 125.”

Bellamy nodded, cracking a smile, “Yeah we’re going to have to bulk you up, but seriously, you’re going to have to fight men at least eighty pounds heavier than you. Lincoln is only 185, but there’s some men out there who are well into the 250s.” 

“I can handle it.” You say, puffing out your chest to prove that you could be broader.

Bellamy nodded once more, “We’ll have to start right away, tomorrow morning at four, I expect you to be back here to meet me.” 

You nodded eagerly, whatever it took. “Deal.”

Bellamy smiled, holding out his hand to shake yours. “It was a pleasure to meet you tonight Mr. Smith.”

“Ben, the name’s Ben.” You said, shaking his hand firmly.

Bellamy tipped his head and put his hand and coat on. “It would seem we were meant to join forces today then.”

“That we were.” 

“I will see you tomorrow.” Bellamy said before turning his back to you and clapping Lincoln on the shoulder. “Let’s get you home so Clarke can have a look at that nose of yours.” 

Bellamy chuckled once more, shaking his head in disbelief. Today hadn’t felt like any other kind of day then just a plain old Tuesday, he had no idea he just met the reason his entire career would end.

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to try something new. I've been sitting on this story for months now, the prologue already written. I wanted to keep it a secret until I was finished, but I am impatient and wanted to get something out to you guys. Let me know if you like it and I'll see what I can do. Thanks for reading and as always you can find me on thisismyhalfroomcutie.tumblr.com.


End file.
